Epilogue
THREE days after my evening dip in New York Bay, Madame hosted a dinner party for six at her Fifth Avenue town house near Washington Square.
In a well-appointed dining room filled with fine art and antiques, warmed by a roaring fireplace, we feasted on Pork Chops Smothered in Onions from an old Jones family recipe (and rumored to be a soul-food favorite of Jimi Hendrix). We ladled the savory onion gravy over Matt’s own Fluffy Garlic Mashed Potatoes, whipped up by Joy, along with a mound of succulent Hard Cider Green Beans—a popular side at the upstairs jazz supper club of our Village Blend, DC.
Dessert was provided by yours truly, my often-requested, rich and decadent Double-Chocolate Fudge Bundt Cake with a dash of espresso powder to add complexity and deepen the lovely roasted flavor of the chocolate.
After the plates were cleared, and a fresh bottle of champagne was popped, the guest of honor proposed a toast.
“To Clare,” Matt said, rising. “The best ex-wife a guy could ever have, and my guardian angel.”
“Please,” I demurred. “I’ll admit I’m a decent ex-wife, but guardian angels don’t put others in jeopardy. What happened to you is on me.”
Matt scratched an IV bruise on his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Clare. That romantic dinner was set before you were ever involved. Marilyn would have slipped that poison into our drinks, and with no one watching, we would both be dead.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, you should acknowledge the fact that more than one person at this table was watching over you that night . . .”
Franco tugged the collar of his dress shirt and looked away. Joy glanced at her father expectantly.
“Sure, why not?” said my ex-husband after a lengthy pause.
I held my breath, daring to hope—
“A toast, to the Angel . . . and the Mook.”
Joy groaned. Franco shook his head, and we all drained our glasses. Okay, so there’s still some work to be done.
Matt quickly sat down. He’d only been out of the hospital one day, and he still looked pale and ashen from his brush with death.
“So, Lee,” Madame said, as we popped another bottle of bubbly. “Tell us what happened after you dropped us off at Battery Park.”
Sergeant Jones, impressive in his NYPD dress uniform and matching blue eye patch, sent a sweet smile Madame’s way.
“Well,” he began, “after we located the runaway Riva doing loops off the coast of St. George, Staten Island, we boarded her and found the beacon Clare told us about. We turned it over to the Coast Guard. They boarded the smugglers’ vessel, seized the drugs, and detained the crew. End of story.”
“Not quite the end,” Madame prompted.
“Well, I did get this a couple of hours ago.” Jones touched a medal with a bronze star, flanked by blue, green, and gold stripes.
“It’s a Commendation,” Madame said like a proud parent. “The police commissioner made the presentation, and the mayor shook Lee’s hand.”
“It’s a fine way to end a career,” Jones said. “I’m retiring next year—forcibly, I might add. The department brass granted me extensions for years on the mandatory retirement age, but they’re drawing the line at seventy.”
“Sounds like you’ll miss the river.”
“Not hardly, Clare. I live on a houseboat.”
“It’s quite charming, too,” Madame said. “And what a view from the bedroom!”
That revelation brought the conversation to a grinding halt. And we all took another drink.
“It’s moored at the Boat Basin,” Jones added, after an amused throat clearing. “Cheapest riverside rent in New York City.”
Matt poured another round. “Speaking of the Hudson River. Clare, it’s a shame your flatfoot couldn’t be here tonight.”
“Mike Quinn is stuck in London,” I said. “Things went a little crazy on both sides of the Atlantic after that Styx bust. But why bring up the river?”
Joy grinned. “I know why.”
“It’s about your wedding venue,” Matt said. “You told me you wanted something on the Hudson, so you could enjoy the sunset.”
“Sure, but the cost—”
“You don’t have to worry anymore. You have a beautiful location on the water, if you want it. But the place is so popular, you’re going to have to wait until next spring or summer before you can book it.”
“What place?”
“The Anchor and Light,” Matt replied. “I made a deal with the owners. I supply their flagship hotel with premium coffee at half the cost for six months, and they’ll give you the top floor and all the servers, for one booking, for free.”
I sat stunned. “Matt . . . I don’t know how to—”
He raised a hand. “Don’t thank me, yet. You’ll have to pay for the catering and booze—but they’ll be discounted, so it will all be very affordable. It’s my wedding gift to you both.” He paused to meet my gaze. “I only wish I could do more . . .”
It took several moments for me to find my voice. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! Just make sure that flatfoot doesn’t leave me off the guest list.”
A week later, I dined out again, this time at Veselka (Mike Quinn finally got me there) to celebrate his homecoming—and my hapless role in interrupting the supply chain for a dangerous new narcotic.
Thankfully, carbs were still legal, and our comfort food feast included pierogi and stuffed cabbage. But my grinning fiancé insisted on dessert at my place, because Veselka didn’t serve the treat he’d been pining for—my “Secret Ingredient” Peanut Butter Cookies.
I’d baked him a special batch earlier in the day. Now we sat in front of my bedroom fireplace, a plate of those chewy-crispy-caramelized treats in front of us with a fresh-pressed pot of East Timor.
“The Brits don’t know what they’re missing,” Mike said, taking a bite. “I love these,” he mumbled around the nutty circle of goodness.
“And I love the smell of the French soap you bought me at Harrods.”
“I love it, too, almost as much as these cookies.”
I playfully elbowed his ribs. “Thanks. Maybe next time I’ll wear peanut butter perfume.”
“I suggest you don’t wear anything at all . . .” He opened a button on my blouse, and then two.
“No more cookies?” I asked as he nuzzled my neck.
“I’ve had enough dessert. Now I’m hungry for something really sweet.”
“So am I.”
There was sweetness in the air, as well, a meaningful remedy to a past observation . . .
Before Mike had gone to London, he’d been troubled by Matt’s single, forsaken rosebud that I’d saved from dying.
Sadly, I hadn’t been able to save Haley Hartford from that fate. She’d taken her last earthly breath. So had the man who killed her. And the man who killed him was facing years, if not life, in prison. These weren’t happy thoughts, but there was a happy ending—for Carol Lynn, Tucker and Punch, Sydney, and the Village Blend.
Grateful to be cleared of the murder charge, Carol Lynn was far from broken. In fact, her ordeal appeared to strengthen her spirit, and she said it taught her something about herself. She’d been through an awful experience—and survived. It was a New Yorker’s lesson, one Madame (and I) certainly knew well.
Punch couldn’t have been happier. Grits and okra were off his plate for good. Tucker finished filming his grand death scene in Swipe to Meat—coming to a theater near you—and the pair just held their very first Sweatin’ with the Seventies fitness class. I bypassed my regular swim (for obvious reasons) and joined the joyous dance, letting Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor restore my soul.
The Cinder CEO and I were on friendly terms again. With Tristan and the smugglers in custody, my witness statement, and Sydney’s full cooperation, Franco and the OD Squad quickly untangled the truth of how Sydney and her business were being framed for drug trafficking. The DA’s office dropped the case against her, shifting their focus to “Hook’s Crew,” who did the actual selling—and Tristan, of course, for his role in the trafficking and the murders of Haley Hartford, Robert Crenshaw, and Doug “Red Beard” Farthing.
Sydney was grateful for the part I’d played in saving her business. And I appreciated her generosity after the ordeal was over. With astonishing forgiveness (and maybe a little atonement for past Hookster sins), she held a beautiful memorial for Haley Hartford, along with a fund-raiser to help Haley’s younger sister through medical school.
As for the Village Blend, she donated a three-month marketing campaign of Cinder Treasure Chest discounts on our drinks and pastries.
Esther, Dante, and Nancy were happy for another reason. Though we were no longer ranked as one of Cinder’s most romantic places to meet, we were now Number One in a brand-new category: Best Places for Second Chance Connections.
As for me and Mike, now that we had the perfect location, we looked forward to finalizing the plans for our wedding day.
It would be a big undertaking. But we had plenty of time to talk things over, though not tonight. We’d reached a point in our evening when neither of us was interested in any more talking.
With a private whisper, Mike pulled me into his open arms. Our friendship was long, and we’d had our ups and downs. His job was demanding and so was mine. There’d be plenty of lonely evenings in our future.
But tonight, we were together, and his kisses were warm and true, fragrant as the flowers around us. As we moved to the bed, my eyes smiled at the evidence of his feelings, all over the room.
He’d brought me roses, dozens of them, too many to fit in one vase.